Boisduval
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Cats are all over the place at Van Dort's Fish. One day, Victor decides to bring home a kitten, who grows up into the family cat.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Months and months ago fanfiction dot net user MissAmyLovett sent me a whole bunch of story possibilities that she'd like to see written. She has been AMAZINGLY patient with me in writing this. So I thought I'd go ahead and share it here as well, for those who are interested. This one idea of hers that I ran with was the story of the family cat, Boisduval, who I first mentioned quite a number of years ago in "Victor's Daughters." There are a couple more sections after this, just a touch too long to be a one-shot.

Enjoy a bit of OC family fluff, everyone! And thanks again to MissAmyLovett for your idea and your patience!

**Boisduval**

"Mr. Visser?" Victor called, stepping into the narrow alley behind Van Dort's Fish. Even though he'd braced for it, the stink of brine and old fish made him wrinkle his nose. The alley was always at its worst on delivery days. Full of bits and pieces waiting to be hauled off, wet nets, and mewling stray cats. Victor was very glad that he worked at a desk.

"Mr. Visser?" he called again, taking a few steps down the alley and narrowly avoiding stepping into a pile of half-wrapped fish innards. Finally he spotted the squat maitenance man toward the other end of the alley, where the packing crates were stored. Mr. Visser was wearing the Van Dort uniform, white cap and emblazoned apron, and held a water bucket in one hand and a stick in the other.

"Excuse me," said Victor, joining the custodian at the crates. "Mr. Visser, we need you inside. Something's gone wrong with the fish meal processor. There are fish heads all over the floor, and brown powder everywhere...but whatever are you doing out here?"

Mr. Visser looked up at Victor and sighed. "Cats!" he exclaimed, gesturing with his stick so violently that Victor had to duck. "Cats all over. More every year."

"Well," said Victor reasonably, "There have always been cats around the cannery." Indeed, there had been scrawny gray and black cats ever since Victor could remember. No one in the village seemed to keep them for pets—more of a dog place, really—but Van Dort's Fish supported a little colony of fish-loving feral cats. Victor never really paid much attention to them, and the cats always returned the favor.

"Not like this," said Mr. Visser grimly. In a swift movement he pulled the top off of one of the crates. Victor watched as a veritable army of cats and kittens surged out of it. It was like the way the fish meal processor had blown, only with felines instead of fish parts.

"Goodness, there are a lot of them, though," Victor remarked. He watched as the cats scrambled to places of safety, running over his feet and between his ankles. One little gray kitten slipped under the crates, its little tail peeking out behind it. From beneath packing crates and nets he could see the hint of a tail here, the glint of an eye in the shadows there. "What will you do with them all?"

Mr. Visser, expression unchanging, hoisted the bucket. A few drops of water sloshed and landed on the already slimy cobblestones.

"Oh," said Victor. He looked at the little kitten tail, still poking out from beneath the crate, and felt terrible for what awaited its tiny owner.

"I'll go see to the meal cleanup," said Mr. Visser, setting down the bucket and the stick. Victor nodded, and thanked him.

He waited until Mr. Visser had disappeared back into the shop before dropping to his knees before the packing crate. The tail quickly disappeared. Victor could hear tiny paws scrambling against the cobblestone. He bent to look into the gap. Two tiny green eyes peered back at him. After a moment's judgment, Victor decided he'd be able to reach in there and retrieve the cat. Better him than Mr. Visser and his bucket. After that, he wasn't sure what he would do. Victoria had never mentioned wanting a pet, but surely she wouldn't object. At the very least she'd praise him for saving the cat, he was certain. Victor's daughters were a touch young for animals, Liddie only barely three, but weren't girls supposed to like cats?

So he carefully he reached into the shadows, wincing when his fingers brushed something slimy and wet. Still he kept on, tongue between his lips in concentration. The kitten kept inching away from his hand. Victor would feel the slightest touch of fur, and then quick as a blink it would retreat.

"Come on," Victor whispered, peeking under the crate. The eyes were in the furthest corner now. "Here, kitty. Here, kitty kitty."

The kitty continued to stare. Victor was beginning to feel foolish and wet around the knees. He shrugged, not without regret. Maybe the poor little thing's ability to hide out of reach would serve it well.

"All right, then," said Victor glumly, brushing off his hands and standing up. "Good luck." He turned to make his way back into the shop. He was nearly at the door when a little cry stopped him.

"Mew," came the cry again. Victor turned. The kitten was slinking its way out from under the crate. Once it emerged it sat and fixed that stare on him again. Victor smiled a little. This time when he knelt and put out a hand, the little cat toddled over to sniff his fingers.

As he ran his fingers over the kitten's head, he remembered the bucket. With one hand he scooped up the unprotesting kitten and stood. The kitten was so small it fit neatly in his hand. Gently he cradled it against his chest.

"I think my daughters would love a pet," he told the purring ball of fuzz. One little paw extended to knead gently at his tie. Carefully he pried the little claws loose, chuckling as he did so. "I would, too, for that matter."

**2**

"Why not simply call him 'Kitty'?" Victoria asked one day a week later. Victor looked up from the open illustrated book of animals on his lap.

"That's rather a girl's name, isn't it?" he asked in return.

Victoria shrugged. "It's what we've been calling him anyway," she said. "He's learning to answer to it. Isn't that right, Kitty?"

This last she directed to the kitten Victor had brought home, who was sharing the armchair in the parlor with her. The cat mewled in response. Much to Victor's pleasure the cat had swiftly become used to being among people, and one would never know of its humble street origins to watch it eat fish from a small china plate or enjoy the comforts of a footstool by the fire. When the cat wasn't sitting on Victor's desk in his study or sleeping on the rag rug on the nursery floor, he was sitting nestled next to Victoria. Her lap was usually taken up with the new baby, Anne, and today was no exception.

It was very pleasant to have a cat. He watched as Victoria ran her fingertips down the kitten's back. There was a little smile on her face as she did so. The baby dozed in the crook of her arm. Victor sat on the sofa with his other daughters on either side of him. Lydia, the oldest and quite precocious, was already beginning to trace words in the open book with her fingertips. Catherine, the middle girl, leaned heavily into his other side until he put his arm around her.

"Mittens," said Catherine, snuggling more deeply into Victor's side. "Mittens is a good name."

"But he hasn't got mittens," Victor pointed out gently. "He's gray all over."

Catherine considered this. "Socks?" she suggested. Victor patted her hair.

"We'll put that on the list of possiblities," he told her. At Lydia's prodding he turned the page of the book. Now they were in the chapter on butterflies.

"Tiger," said Lydia, pointing to the heading above a drawing of a Tiger Swallowtail. "We could name him Tiger."

Everyone looked at the small gray cat with the big green eyes contentedly nestled into Victoria's skirts. His purring was audible. Not exactly the fiercest in the jungle. But aloud Victor said, "Another good idea."

Lydia smiled, proud of herself, and continued tracing words along the page, Victor helping in a murmur when needed. Catherine was growing heavier and heavier. When Victor looked down at her he found her very nearly asleep. He glanced up to share a parental smile with Victoria, who held the baby a little closer. With her free hand she stroked the cat's side.

"How about Charlie?" suggested Victoria, now tracing little trails in the kitten's fur. The purring got louder, making Victor wonder how such a big noise could come from such a small cat. "Or Tom? Tom is a fitting name for a boy cat."

Victor was about to agree, but Lydia spoke first. "Mama, those are people names," she said, which was a rather good point. Victoria did not respond beyond "Hm," which made Victor think he might perhaps have sided with his wife on this one. Victoria gently shifted a waking Anne to her shoulder. Her movement woke the cat. Both baby and kitten made nearly identical mewling sounds simultaneously, making Victoria laugh.

As Lydia turned the pages and Victor continued to help her sound out words, Catherine started to snore gently beside him. Noticing, Victoria gently moved the cat and stood from her chair, baby Anne asleep again in her arms. Victor stirred Catherine to wake her up just enough so that Victoria could take her hand and lead her up to the nursery for a nap.

"You should join them, shouldn't you?" Victor asked Lydia after Victoria and the other children had started up the stairs. He was unsure of how this nap-taking arrangement worked. Lydia gave the merest of head shakes.

"I'm not sleepy," she assured him, and turned another page. "'Red. Ad. Ad-my..."

"Admiral," Victor supplied. Then, "That might be a good name. Admiral."

"Admiral cat," said Lydia. She sounded noncommittal. The two of them watched the kitten get wobbily to his feet and stretch mightily. Light of foot he hopped to the floor and sauntered over to them. With one hand Victor scooped him up and put him in Catherine's still-warm spot, which the kitten seemed to appreciate. He curled up into a perfect little ball of cat, tail touching his nose.

"What is this word?" Lydia asked, pointing to a caption. Victor looked.

"Boisduval," he told her, guiding her fingertip across the letters. "Boisduval's Blue. Boisduval was a lepidopterist, one of the best. And isn't the Blue pretty?"

Lydia nodded, going so far as to trace her fingertip over the broad illustrated wings. Victor was glad she was impressed. The Blue was always one of his favorites. It had even more special meaning for him now, as did all blue lepidoptera. He smiled, and traced a wing himself.

"Say, that's a good name," Victor said. "Boisduval. Let's name the cat Boisduval. What do you think, Liddie?"

Lydia slowly met his eyes. "I think it's naptime," she said, sliding to the floor. She was tall enough to not need to stand on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room. He listened to her footfalls disappear upstairs. Then he looked at the cat.

"Boisduval it is," he said, the only voter in the room. He continued to leaf through the book, petting fuzzy little Boisduval as he did so.


	2. Chapter 2

3

Victoria stirred awake when she felt the mattress move. Opening her eyes was difficult-her eyelids felt unbearably heavy. As did the rest of her.

"Hello, Kitty," said Victoria, her mouth dry and her voice croaky from sleep. She reclined against the pillows and patted the quilt. Boisduval. What a name. She'd smiled and let Victor do as he liked, but to her, the big gray tomcat would always be Kitty.

Boisduval curled up in a snug ball beside her, and gazed at her with those striking green eyes. Gently she stroked his face. She smiled when he began to purr. This cat had a purr that was deep and contented, one that nearly made the mattress vibrate.

"It's nice of you to visit me," Victoria said. She glanced over at the bassinet beside her bed. "Us," she amended.

Most of the last month was a haze of morphine and pain. Victoria didn't remember most of Mary's birth, nor what had come after. Darkness and pain. And the dream.

Sighing, Victoria shifted so that she could rest against a cooler spot on her pillow. "I'm sorry," she said when the cat gave a merl of disruption. Apparently the cat forgave her, for he stood, stretched, and resettled himself more snugly against her side, burying his face in the crook of her elbow. Smiling, she gathered him a little closer.

Gently she stroked the cat's fur, enjoying his warmth and softness and presence. She watched the sun slant through the window. She'd been so long in bed she had its daily progress across the room memorized. From the rest of the house she could hear the family routines she so dearly missed. A month. A month lost.

The children came in to visit her a few times a day. They popped in less often now. When she looked into their eyes she saw worry, worry so deep it made her nearly want to cry. Why, it was her job to worry about _them_, not the other way around.

Victor, of course, came to sit with her frequently. It had taken a week or two to convince him she was well enough to have him share the bed again. Nights were lonelier than days.

"Such an odd dream, Kitty," she murmured, not for the first time. Victoria couldn't stop coming back to it. The cat was the only one she'd told. She wasn't sure how Victor would take it. The children certainly didn't need to know. Kitty would keep her secrets.

"To see them again," Victoria continued. "To see it. Just as Victor described it."

The dream had been so vivid. Everything just as Victor had described. A pub with brightly colored lights. Music. Dead bodies and skeletons everywhere, talking and laughing. Just as she herself remembered them from the night the dead had walked.

But in the dream Victoria was in the territory of the dead. She knew with that certainty one had in dreams. She'd been wearing her nightdress, and her hair had been undone. Her feet were bare. And yet Victoria had walked right up to the bar, as if it all was perfectly natural. The sounds were so clear. The images so well-defined. So not dream-like.

_I wonder why the alarm didn't go off? _a voice had wondered from behind her. There were murmurs all about as Victoria lifted her hands before her. The sight of them made her gasp. Her hands were almost transparent. Ghostly hands.

_Neat, you can see right through her!_ a tiny skeleton with braids exclaimed from beside her. Victoria looked down and saw that this was true. She had distinct form, but was insubstantial otherwise.

The dead gathered round her to look. Again Victoria, in her dream, was alarmed by how real this all was. How real it felt. Fright began to creep its way up her spine. The dream was swiftly taking on the quality of a nightmare.

A familiar-looking skeleton examined her with his eye-less sockets. Victoria noticed how dark her vision was becoming. Just around the edges, but creeping in. And her dream-self was beginning to fade.

_By Jove,_ the skeleton said in a voice which seemed to come from far away. _I don't think you're dead._

There was a general commotion, but Victoria was sinking in the midst of it. The darkness deepened. The room had spun, and she'd been aware of a queer tugging sensation.

She'd awakened with a deep gasp back in her own dark bedroom, a rumpled Victor slouched on a chair beside her bed. Sweat coated her brow, dripped down her nose, but she was too weak to wipe it away. Soon after consciousness came the pain, deep and searing. And then Victor had told her, in a voice hoarse and sad, what had happened...

Even now the memory of that dream, its images and feelings, were as immediate as ever. Despite her best efforts to put it out of her mind, she found she kept coming back to that vision of death. Victoria sighed and put the hand not cuddling the cat against her belly. No more children for her. Not ever. But at least Mary was here. Dear little Mary, her last one. No sons. Not ever.

Dearly she needed to believe it was just a dream. Just a dream. It was impossible that she'd come so close. That she'd had a vision of what was beyond the grave. Just a dream. Helped along by morphine, no doubt.

"And I'm all right now," Victoria finished aloud to the cat. She scratched under his chin, as he liked her to do. "We're here. And safe."

Mary gave a cry. Not yet a wail, but nearly there. Shuffling and shifting came from the bassinet. Victoria's throat tightened. Could she get out of bed to tend her daughter? She was supposed to ring for the housekeeper.

But for heaven's sake, the bassinet was just there. Not even three steps. How long had it been since she'd managed three steps?

Putting the bedclothes aside with a murmured apology to the cat, Victoria put her feet to the floor for the first time in weeks. Suddenly the bassinet seemed much farther away. Shuffling, wincing from the hot pain, Victoria made her way to the baby. When she got there, she looked down at her tiny, tiny newborn. So much smaller than the other girls. But fiercer. Her cries were louder, her physicality more aggressive—so much anger in those tiny, flailing fists. Perhaps it was something to do with not having Victoria near her for very much of her short life.

Victoria bit her lip. Carefully she reached into the bassinet and put her hands under Mary's wriggling form. When she tried to lift, her wrists went limp. Victoria had to blink away a few stray tears. She dared not try to lift Mary, lest she drop her. She was unable to pick up her own infant, let alone feed her. Morphine, again. Not safe. Mary had to wait for the housekeeper and a bottle.

Head swimming, Victoria sat down heavily on the floor. Mary fussed in the bassinet. From the bed the cat stared at her with piercing green eyes. Surely it couldn't be so, Victoria knew better, but she could swear the cat looked concerned for her. Victoria closed her eyes and breathed deep.

There was a thump. Padding footfalls. Kitty pressed his reassuring weight against her side. She could feel the slight vibration of his purr.

It took her a moment to realize that the cat was not purring. The vibration was coming from her. Why, she was shaking like a leaf. She made a feeble move to stand, but the moment she moved the world seemed to tilt. Sweat was beading on her brow, soaking the collar of her nightgown. Her insides felt as if they were on fire. Victoria inched herself painfully backward so that she could lean against the wall.

Eyes closed, trembling, Victoria listened to her tiny daughter mewl to herself. Not wailing or crying or screaming, thank goodness. Mary was all right. Hungry, perhaps. And here Victoria was, on the floor, unable to do a thing about it. If she'd had more strength she would have cried a little.

"Oh Kitty," she managed, opening her eyes and seeing Boisduval looking back at her, again with that almost concerned look. Clumsily she brushed at his head. "Oh, Kitty. What am I to do?"

It couldn't have been that long before Mrs. Reed bustled in, alarmed immediately at the sight of her mistress on the bedroom floor. Victoria was hastened back to bed, to weak to argue or help, and Mary was kindly and efficiently tended to while all Victoria could do was watch.

The moment the fussing had stopped and the bedclothes righted, the cat had leapt back onto the bed and curled himself against Victoria's side. Victoria stroked him. He was a sweet, loyal animal. She was glad he was a part of their family.

Victoria, freshly dosed, didn't really notice Mrs. Reed leave. She could hear Mary breathing. It was a sound to be grateful for. Victoria drifted off to sleep in the early evening shadows, her hand still in Boisduval's fur.

4

"Oof, you're such a big kitty," Anne puffed after her third failed attempt to pick Boisduval up. The cat, his gray fur rumpled from her hands, looked up at her with bright green eyes. Anne reached to smooth his fur. Soon Boisduval was purring his deep rusty purr, lifting his chin for a scratch.

It was a warm but weakly lit summer day, and the garden smelled of impending rain. Anne had been practicing her botanical sketches when Boisduval, meowing for her attention, had trundled across the lawn toward her. Boisduval was indeed a big kitty now. He was roughly as old as she was, and he wore his eight years mostly around his middle.

Anne decided to give it one more try.

This time she knelt on the ground beside the cat and scooped him ungracefully into her arms. Ungainly Boisduval righted himself a bit so that his tail was free. His purr sounded a bit uncertain now. Mustering all the strength in her legs Anne stood, trying to support the cat as best she could.

"There now!" she said, kissing the top of Boisduval's head. Her arms were already shaking with the effort of holding the heavy cat, but she just hugged him close and tried not to let him slip. Boisduval let her, though he'd stopped purring.

Carefully Anne made her way back down the flagstones toward the garden bench and her sketchbook. A few of her rejected sketches lay in a pile on the ground by the hedge, and she set Boisduval down by these. He loved paper. She'd rather he love the paper she wasn't using, though.

As she'd expected, the cat immediately took a seat squarely in the middle of an abandoned charcoal drawing of a rosebush. Beneath him the heavy paper buckled and crinkled. Apparently pleased, Boisduval wrapped his tail primly about his feet and went to work washing his whiskers with a forepaw.

Anne picked up her sketchbook and one of her nice charcoal pencils, and settled back in on the garden bench. Today she was working on drawing a lilac blossom. So many little blooms on so many little twigs! Open beside her on the bench was the guide to flowers Father had given her for Christmas last year. Anne used it for reference and scientific names. Pencil poised, Anne looked at the slightly wilted late-season lilac blossom she'd propped up against her pencil box. She set about filling in the clusters of flowers.

"Thryse," she murmured to herself as she labeled part of her drawing in careful letters.

It was so pleasant to work in the garden without anyone but the cat for company. She could concentrate, lose herself in the flowers and her drawing. At her feet Boisduval, face cleaned to his satisfaction, lay down upon the paper and tucked all of his paws beneath him. He looked like a fat gray loaf of bread. She leaned to stroke his back.

"You're such a loyal kitty," Anne told him. Boisduval purred, eyes closed, as if this was understood. In nice weather, and sometimes even in poor, Boisduval would come to find her when she was outside working. It was an honor he didn't afford to anyone else in the family, this trailing about. Well, except when Mother happened to be sitting down in a comfortable chair. Or when Mary was carrying bits of food around the house. But Anne knew Boisduval didn't follow her for laps or for nibbles. It was because they were friends.

Simple as that.

Anne and Boisduval sat in companionable silence. She sketched. He catnapped, coming to attention to watch the occasional bird. Somewhere in the distance a raven croaked to itself. From the hedge came little twitterings. And from beyond the hedge came the sound of tuneless humming, accompanied by little footsteps.

"Good morning, Mary," said Anne, glancing up from her sketch as her little sister approached. Mary was three and tiny, with dark hair and enormous eyes. Like an elf, or a fairy. She certainly contained enough mischief to be one of the wee people.

"Morning," Mary replied. She plopped down on the ground next to the bench. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, just drawing," Anne said, inclining her head toward her supplies. Mary's big eyes lit up.

"May I also draw?" she asked. Before Anne could answer Mary was pulling a sheet of paper from Anne's portfolio and turning it over to use the back. There went the picture of the robin she was so proud of, Anne noted sadly.

"Certainly," Anne said, not without trepidation. She chose the oldest pencil she had to hand to Mary, who took it and immediately set to work, kneeling on the ground and hunched over the bench.

Anne watched with dismay as her charcoal pencil was ground down and ruined by Mary's clumsy little fist. With a deep breath she told herself to calm down. Just a pencil. There could always be more pencils. Mary, so much younger than the rest of them, needed the company.

For a while they worked in silence. Anne realized she'd never known Mary to be quiet this long. She stole a sidelong glance at her little sister. Mary was bent studiously over her work, still making a mess of Anne's pencil but clearly enjoying herself.

"Do you have green pencils?" Mary asked after a while. The pencil in her hand was nearly a stub, and her little fingers were covered in smudges.

"No," Anne replied. "I'm sorry, I don't."

Mary looked very upset by this news. She stared down at her drawing, little brows knit together. "I suppose I'm done, then," she said. "I've things to do in the house."

With that Mary set down her pencil and stood. Anne saw that her knees were dirty and the hem of her dress bore a grass stain. Mother wouldn't be best pleased.

"I'll be in in a little while," Anne said, knowing how Mary liked to keep tabs on the family. Not unlike the cat, come to think of it. Mary nodded.

Mary gave the cat a few clumsy strokes on the head by way of good-bye. After a moment's thought, she did the same to Anne. Anne righted her hair ribbon as she watched Mary make her way back up to the house. Paper crinkled as Boisduval settled himself more comfortably. Anne reached over to smooth his mussed fur. Then she set about picking up her things. Mary had left her drawing on the bench. Curious, Anne picked it up.

Filling most of the paper was a large blob, colored in with gray. Only by looking more closely did Anne see the little tail and the pointy ears. Two mismatched circles, eyes most like, had been outlined near the top of the blob. No wonder Mary had asked for green pencils. After a moment's consideration Anne took up her pencil again.

_Boisduval in the garden_, she wrote in tiny letters toward the bottom of the page, the way Father had showed her to annotate her drawings of plants. _Mary Van Dort, July 1904._

With care Anne slipped Mary's drawing into the portfolio alongside her own, packed up her pencils, and collected the pages on the ground. Soon enough the only one left was the one under the cat. Anne knew better than to try to shift a napping cat secure on his square of paper.

So she turned away toward the house, and said, "I'm going inside, Boisduval. See you soon." And she walked away.

Anne was just past the lilac bushes at the head of the garden path and was about to step onto the lawn when she heard a throaty, rusty _meow! _behind her.

Smiling, she stopped to let the cat catch up, and together they went back to the house.


	3. Chapter 3

5

Catherine sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her clothes. Well, at her new uniform. A _uniform_. Something deep inside her rebelled at the very idea.

The dress hung from her open wardrobe door. It was shapeless with bizarrely out of fashion leg-o-mutton sleeves. The olive green of the rough fabric was easily the most unflattering color Catherine had ever seen. And that pinafore that went over it! Hideous.

The only consolation was that every other girl in the school would also be wearing it.

Unable to look at it any longer, Catherine stood and turned her back on it, setting her attention to her underthings and linens. Black knee socks. An endless row of black knee socks. No stripes or even a nice pastel to break the monotony of black.

Catherine picked up a pair of stockings and listlessly began to fold them. At least they were nice material, Mother had seen to that. Mother was so thoughtful. It was hard to think of not having Mother about. The more that thought snowballed about her brain, picking up the tidbits of everything else she'd miss, the harder it became to bear.

"I just _can't_," she cried at last, unable to stand the swell of nervous pressure. She felt as if she would burst with it. She flung the horrid socks into her trunk. Hot tears started to prick at her eyes. Catherine blinked them away. She sighed a deep, gusty sigh. The sock-flinging had made her feel marginally better. But only marginally.

"Merr," said the cat, sounding annoyed by her outburst. Boisduval, the grumpy old thing, had beached himself on a pile of nightgowns she'd decided not to take with her. He was getting fur all over. She'd been surprised that he'd stayed after she'd come into the room. He only came to her room when he was desperate for a napping spot. Boisduval liked the many plump pillows and soft downy covers that Catherine favored. "Mrow," he added.

She wasn't sure why she was a bit hurt by the knowledge that the family cat used her for her bedding, but she was.

"Don't look at me like that," she told the cat, who was blinking slowly at her from his nest of nightgowns. "Don't look at me like I'm mad. Because I'm not."

No matter what she tried to tell Boisduval, her breathing was coming faster. She was going to start crying. She was going to throw something else. She was going to explode.

_Pull yourself together! _Catherine scolded herself. _Calm down. It's school. Not prison. Girls go away to school all the time. Liddie did it. You can, as well. You're nearly twelve. Calm down!  
_

Catherine breathed deep. Again and again, in and out, until she felt calmer. Boisduval was watching her lazily, unimpressed by hysterics. Catherine watched him stretch, grunt, and then settle himself into her nightgowns more comfortably. He finished with a few self-satisfied licks of his chops.

"Everything is _fine_," Catherine said aloud. She very nearly believed it. With one hand she swiped at her eyes, and reached for another pair of socks with the other. A knock on her open door made her turn.

It was Liddie.

"Mother sent me to ask if you need help," she said. She cast her eye over Catherine's demonstrably unpacked things. "It's nearly time to get ready for dinner," she added.

"I know," Catherine replied, her voice small. There was no way to keep the misery out of her tone. She hadn't the talent for steel like Liddie and Mother. Catherine was all custard. _Cowardly_-custard. She sniffed, dropping the socks. Lydia looked at her closely.

"You don't _have _to go, you know," Lydia told her, leaning against the doorframe. "Mother would hire a tutor for you. A governess, or something."

"No. I want to go," Catherine replied stubbornly. Even to her own ears it sounded like a lie. But she couldn't have her older sister thinking her weak or silly. Not anymore than she already did, anyway. It was a matter of principle and of pride. Lydia shrugged, and joined Catherine by the bed.

For a while they were quiet, piling clothes into the trunk at random. Mother or Mrs. Reed would've done a better job at this. Catherine wandered over to her vanity, half-intending to pack up her toiletries. Her lovely little vanity. A matched set, stool and table and mirror all done up in white and rose-patterned cloth, which had been a birthday present when she'd turned ten. Grandmamma had given her the ivory brush and mirror, which Catherine always kept carefully arranged just so next to her china jewelry box.

Catherine tried to imagine a place for her beautiful things in a dormitory. She failed. A lump rose in her throat.

"Oh, get off, you big pest," Liddie muttered, annoyance tinged with affection. Catherine looked over her shoulder to see Lydia trying to tug a nightgown out from under the cat. Boisduval, half-asleep, dug in. His tail gave a half-hearted swish. Liddie gave up. She swept the rest of Catherine's socks into the trunk and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'll miss having a cat about," said Catherine. Her throat tightened. "I'll miss my own bed." Tears pricked and burned at the corners of her eyes. She swallowed hard. With a sigh she sank down upon her bed, resting against her feather pillows. Were there feather pillows at school? She'd not thought to ask.

"It's not as if you'll never come home again," Lydia pointed out. "You'll get used to it." Always so cool and reasonable. Even when leaving home for the first time, last year, Catherine remembered her sister being dry-eyed and calm. Had barely hugged them good-bye before hopping on the train. Catherine could never do that.

"And it's fun," Liddie added. "So not like here, Catherine, really. It's so..._wonderful _to get out. There's a forest on the grounds with paths, and there's a Latin class. And tennis! Haven't I told you about the tennis?"

Good gracious, had she. Liddie had won a little trophy last year for being good at tennis. Probably because her arms were so freakishly long. Catherine probably wouldn't win a thing. There wasn't anything she was very good at.

Catherine just sat there on her soft, familiar bed, with the soft, familiar cat so comfortable and untroubled beside her. Liddie was talking about learning shorthand now. It was boring even to hear about, Catherine couldn't imagine taking it up herself. She reached and put an uncertain hand to the cat's head. Boisduval never seemed to like it when she petted him, so she usually avoided it. She wasn't sure what she'd ever done wrong or rough to him. Cats were unfathomable.

This time, though, Boisduval didn't seem to mind. Maybe he was too sleepy to care. Just maybe he realized Catherine could really use some comforting. What a sweet animal, even if he was a grump.

"You're a nice cat," said Catherine. Her voice came out cracked and wobbly. And then the tears broke loose, burning hot paths down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" Liddie asked, sounding more annoyed at having her monologue interrupted than concerned for her sister's welfare. Catherine ignored her in favor of burying her face in Boisduval's side. He smelled of fur and faintly of dirt, but she didn't care. It was a familiar smell. The cat tensed, but didn't flee. If even Boisduval ran away in the face of her feelings, Catherine didn't think she'd be able to stand it.

No more familiar bed. No more familiar clothes. No more sisters about all the time, only Liddie, who would surely ignore her in favor of the girls in her own form and her precious tennis. A sob broke from her throat. It seemed that now the tears had started they were impossible to stop. She wanted to cry until she dried up and blew away and didn't have to worry about boarding school ever again.

There was Liddie's clumsy hand on her back. Patting once, twice. Catherine could feel the awkwardness radiating off her older sister. Finally, Lydia said, "Listen, it's all right. I'll go get Mother, shall I?"

Catherine pulled away from Boisduval just enough to be able to nod her head. "Thank you," she croaked. She sniffed.

Boisduval had finally had enough. The moment Catherine loosed her hold, he lumbered to his feet and jumped to the floor, landing noisily. There was a damp spot on his side from her tears. Rumpled and lashing his tail in a clearly agitated way, he followed Liddie out the bedroom door without even a backward glance.

Catherine couldn't help feeling hurt.

She hadn't the energy to sit up, so she just flopped onto her back and let herself sink into her familiar bedclothes. When she wiped at her face, her fingers came away wet and covered in gray cat hair.


	4. Chapter 4

6

Secretly, Lydia was excited to have her portrait taken. Because she knew it was a silly thing to be thrilled about, though, she carefully pretended nonchalance in front of her parents and sisters.

Once she was alone in her bedroom it was a different story entirely.

Lydia's room was on the third floor of the house, a small space with a tiny window and strange angles and corners. Lydia loved it, maids' quarters or no. It was nice and private and all hers. Grandmamma would be arriving in just two hours to take her into the village to have her photograph done. Lydia, still in her nightdress and robe and her hair in last night's braid, surveyed her clothes.

She cast a critical eye over her sailor-style dress, which Mrs. Reed had set out for her. It looked incredibly childish. Not suitable at all for a grown girl of thirteen having a photograph done. Lydia stuffed the dress back into the wardrobe. She wanted something elegant, something sophisticated and trim. Her school uniform certainly wouldn't do.

At last Lydia made her selection. Nothing said "grown-up" quite so well as a smart shirtwaist and a plaid skirt. A proper skirt, too, now that she was grown. The hem went all the way to the tops of her boots, and she felt fabulously adult in it. With care she laid the skirt and blouse on her bed, allowing herself a moment to admire them. Perhaps she'd wear the matching jacket, as well. This she quickly found in her wardrobe and added it to the ensemble on the bed. Perfect.

Mother had even purchased her new underthings for her birthday. At the time Lydia had been merely polite and accepted the gifts, but the more she considered it the more she felt she'd been inducted into a grown-up women's club. Just her and Mother wore this sort of thing. Lydia's sisters were still too young. Nicer combinations in newer style. Long petticoat to match her skirt. And a proper corset.

All of these she donned with reverence, even managing the corset on her own. It was a touch loose, but then she didn't have much to hold in or up. After a moment's consideration she pulled her robe on. She'd do her hair first, then dress.

An explosive sneeze from behind her made her jump. Reflexively she clutched her robe closed. Lydia turned and looked about for the source of the noise.

"How long have you been in here?" Lydia asked Boisduval. The fat gray cat was curled up in her reading chair in the corner. His fur matched the upholstery so well he'd been camouflaged. He barely looked at her before setting his head back down and closing his eyes. There were some droplets on his whiskers from his sneeze.

It was silly, but somehow the idea that the cat had been watching her made her feel self-conscious. Boisduval seemed to have gone to sleep. So Lydia went back to her business and took a seat at her vanity table.

She undid her braid and brushed out her long black hair, taking the time to admire it. Then, she set about putting it up in a simple bun, as Mother had shown her. No more braids or loose hair for her. She worked slowly and carefully with her pins. Lydia was making a hash of it. But even with escaping wisps and sprung pins, though, she felt grown-up. Sophisticated. Very nearly pretty.

Lydia turned this way and that, examining her face from every angle. Not terrible. Only a few spots in out-of-the-way places, for which she was grateful. Her eyes weren't bad, but her lips were too thin. She was all points. And she looked boyish no matter what she did. Lydia sighed. Never really pretty. She'd have to settle for "handsome." Lydia tried not to care.

There came a knock at the door which pulled her abruptly from her preening. Lydia pulled her robe more closely over herself and went to the door. A big section of her hair flopped loose as she walked, scattering pins on the floor.

"Yes?" Lydia asked, pulling open her bedroom door a crack. Anne stood on the other side.

"Is the cat in here with you?" Anne asked. Her brow was furrowed with worry. "I've looked all over for him and he isn't anywhere."

Anne sounded too close to tears for Lydia to remain annoyed at being interrupted. She pulled open the door the rest of the way and pointed.

"He's over there," she said, and Anne slipped into the room and approached the cat as if the two of them had been separated for years in war-torn circumstances. Lydia could not see what the fuss was about. The cat wandered around all the time.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm trying to dress," Lydia said politely. She was taken aback by the reproachful look Anne shot her. "What?"

"Haven't you noticed he isn't well?" Anne asked. Lydia looked at the cat, who appeared the same as always. "He's been wandering off to be alone a lot. I'm worried, Liddie."

"I'm sure he's fine," Lydia said lamely. Now that she really looked, the cat _did _seem thinner than last she'd seen him. It was hard to tell, she'd been away at school so much. And when she was home her path crossed Boisduval's only once in a while.

Anne didn't reply. She merely reached down and ever so gently picked Boisduval up, as if cradling an infant. She was murmuring to him, little comforting nonsense words. Lydia was tempted to remind her that Boisduval was a cat, not a baby, but the look on Anne's face made her keep her mouth shut.

"I'll take him to the parlor," Anne said, mostly to herself. She was stroking Boisduval's head. Which, Lydia noticed as they passed by her, had a few more white hairs streaking the gray than she remembered. She opened her mouth to say something, but she couldn't decide what. So she closed it again and watched Anne leave with the cat. Lydia closed the door behind them softly.

"Poor old thing," Lydia murmured. But then she shrugged it off. Boisduval would be fine, she was sure. Even cats were under the weather sometimes. Anne was such a worrywart. It was when Lydia reached for her shiny black boots that she noticed it.

There was a little puddle of sick under the gray chair. Lydia grimaced. There was another small puddle, mostly liquid, on the cushion. Another near the door. Too small to notice, and it blended with the plain wood floor.

Somewhere deep down Lydia went cold. She sank back down on her vanity chair. Suddenly she didn't feel very excited about her portrait anymore.

7

The mood was somber in the parlor. Sadness settled over everyone heavily, like a cloak. Nobody spoke. Nobody really moved. Nobody looked at anyone else. They were all encased in their own private worlds.

Victor sat on the sofa with one arm around Anne, who had finally cried herself into exhaustion. Her eyes were red-rimmed and every now and again her chin would start to wobble. Victoria sat close on his other side. She was dry-eyed, but her mouth tugged down at the corners. Mary was on her lap, the only one of them who seemed ready to fidget. She managed to hold back, though, probably heavily influenced by the mood of her family. She kept herself quietly amused by playing with the lace on Victoria's cuff.

Mary was too young to really understand what had happened.

Catherine, usually so preoccupied with being ladylike, had curled herself up in Victor's armchair by the fire, legs tucked beneath her. Her needlework was forgotten in her lap. It was strange to see Catherine so quiet.

Only Lydia sat apart, perched on the windowseat and staring out into the garden. She'd not spoken much today, either. Not since she'd come ashen-faced and wet-eyed into the dining room this morning to tell them all what she'd found.

Victor sighed inwardly. There was nothing worse than watching his family grieve and being unable to help. He pulled Anne a bit closer. Everything he could think to say sounded ridiculously hollow and meaningless. So he stayed quiet.

From the hall came the chime of the grandfather clock. Nearly time for tea. Not that any of them had much of an appetite.

"Is the cat really gone?" Mary asked. Not for the first time. Anne took a shuddery breath.

"_Yes_," Lydia spat from behind them. "How many times do we have to tell you?"

"Lydia," said Victoria, her voice a warning. Lydia crossed her arms and continued staring out the window. Victor looked at her profile. She was probably just snappish because she was sad.

"Yes, I'm afraid he is, darling," Victoria said to Mary. There was a little catch in her voice.

Mary didn't ask anything else. Silence settled over them again. Victor was thinking of Scraps. How sad he'd been when Scraps had died. But then, to find out Scraps had been fine all that time. Dead, yes, but having a very nice afterlife for himself. Probably still was. If he'd not gone on to some greater reward, that was.

Victor liked to think of Boisduval waking up in the kitchen at the Ball and Socket. Miss Plum would feed him tidbits, he could chase the roaches, he'd have dozens upon dozens of corpses to pet him. So many tables to lay upon. So many hiding places.

This fantasy was immensely comforting. All the more because Victor knew it was probably close to the truth. He looked around at his wife and children, and realized that he _could _help them. Perhaps at least a little.

"He's gone to the Land of the Dead," Victor told Mary. His announcement hung in the air. Victoria, gaze questioning, caught his eye. For a long moment they looked at each other. At last, she gave the tiniest of nods. Victor slid his free arm around her waist.

"Do you mean heaven?" Catherine asked. Theirs was a church-for-social-purposes household, so this was uncertain territory for the children. Anne was wiping at her cheeks, but was looking at him expectantly.

"No," Victor said, more confident now. "Not quite. Just...the place that you go to. When you die."

"But nobody knows that for certain," said Lydia. She'd come to perch on the arm of the sofa. She looked at him closely, with eyes identical to his own. "What happens after you die."

Again Victor and Victoria shared a look. Absurd as it was, they'd never discussed how to handle such a conversation. They'd been focusing their attention on living. On the future. One would have thought this would be easy, given what he'd witnessed. But, Victor supposed, the notion of mortality was a difficult one to grasp fully. He wasn't entirely sure that he did, even. _Being _dead, however...perhaps that was easier to explain.

"We do, actually," said Victoria slowly, looking at each of the children in turn. They each looked confused, unsure, waiting to hear what she would say next. "I...well...it's a long story."

Victor became aware that his daughters had followed his wife's lead, and were now staring at him. He cleared his throat. And conjured up the image of a lively dead cat playing in a kitchen for eternity.

"It _is _a long story," he agreed, "But it's one you children should hear, I think."

**-Epilogue-**

From his perch high in the oak tree overlooking the Land of the Dead, Boisduval surveyed his new home. He liked it up here. He'd never climbed trees when he'd been alive. His humans had preferred him safe on the ground.

Boisduval had some notion that he was dead, though he didn't know the term for it. Every animal knew death. And every animal understood it differently. As far as Boisduval was concerned, this was a way-station. To where, he wasn't sure. But he had a bone-deep certainty that this wasn't the end.

Cats, after all, have nine lives. Boisduval wasn't done yet.

For now he lounged on his branch, watching the dead walk around below him. With that talent cats had for awareness of the presence of their own, Boisduval knew he was the only cat currently in the vicinity. When it was time to move on, he'd know it. Just as he'd known when it was time to curl up in his basket and go to sleep and not wake again.

He thought of his basket without really missing it. Boisduval didn't _miss _anything, really. Except for his humans. He'd loved them. They'd taken good care of him in that life. He wondered, so far as cats could wonder, if he'd have such nice people in his next go-round.

Boisduval stood, stretched extravagantly, and hopped gracefully from branch to branch all the way down to the ground. Tail swishing, he sauntered through the headstones and empty graves. Along the way some dead people paused to stroke him as he slid by, or to hail him with _Here, kitty!_

Humans were the same, living or dead. He made sure to twine around the dead peoples' ankles every once in a while, maybe give them a purr for their trouble.

On he walked until he reached the alley door he'd come to know so well. It was ajar, and he slipped through the gap.

"Oh, look who it is!" cried Miss Plum when she saw him. "It's our Tom!"

**The End**

**Author's Note: **So there you go, MisAmyLovett! I hope it was what you wanted, and I hope the rest of you enjoyed it as well. It was fun to write, so thanks for the opportunity. See you around!

PlayerPiano


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